Is anyone familiar with Reed Ghazala's experience playing his first circuit bent instrument in a church? Seems appropriate for the topic and it's a hilarious/saddening little story:
"However, the now-classic point in bending's history, early history, was that of playing in the wrong place at the wrong time. Neither the band nor my instrument would survive the evening unharmed.
To appreciate the circumstance of this engagement, one must recall the era of the American 1960�s. In my (very tiny) corner of the world, society was divided between two �camps.� The most interesting (and certainly most colorful, worldly and musical) camp for my age group was the hippie movement. This meant I�d just enlisted in a tribe whose �colors� were a giant bull�s eye indelibly painted upon one�s back. This painting, attractive to the other nine-tenths of society, was the price of admission.
That other nine-tenths of society was in attendance, and was in fact our audience, when we took the stage one evening. This was a stage where sermons were usually served, the stage of a small Christian church.
Our invitation was the same invitation that went out neighborhood-wide: If you have a band, you�re welcome. Well, we not only had a band, but we also had planet earth�s first circuit-bent instrument.
It turns out we didn�t need the bull�s eye on the back of our jackets that night. My instrument, with tiny spinning speakers and aluminum foil finger pads, was enough all by itself. I knew we were in real trouble when a hymnal hit our keyboardist in the side of the head.
Alas � our line-up didn�t include Blue Suede Shoes, Hound Dog, the theme from Rawhide or any of the other requests shouted from the audience. And what we did know, tunes like Alice�s Restaurant and Light My Fire, were but fuses leading to the powder keg - �Don�t you guys know no music at all? Elvis! Elvis! Elvis!�
But it was when I brought out my first circuit-bent instrument, and sent it squealing into the big Fender and Vox amps, that the audience went into melt-down. First there was silence � the kind of silence that falls over an audience at a magic show, the kind that accompanies disbelief. But heads were now turning to each other, sharing a mounting outrage that hippies could be making this kind of noise in their neighborhood. That they were expected to put-up with such an instrument making such a sound � it didn�t even have strings!
Clearly, we somehow were bashing Elvis, and his fans would not stand for such. Before this last song was over, our �fans� had blocked the doorways, and had become a truly ugly bunch.
Outnumbered ten-to-one, we, as a group, dove into the rowdies blocking the doorway as fists flew and as the speaker axle on my instrument snapped under a punch aimed at my kidneys. Hiding the instrument beneath my jacket did no good � they�d tracked it like a rabbit in the snow.
In a moment we realized it was the instrument they were after. Though I tried my best to protect it, it was smashed beyond the possibility of repair by the time we fought our way to the van parked outside. No, we didn�t play there again.